Hidden Starlight
by Pachelbel
Summary: Set shortly after Return of the King. Glorfindel is blinded and left for dead--now he is learning that walking in darkness isn't as empty as it seems.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer: **Glorfindel and middle-earth and pretty much all of the characters in this fic belong to Tolkien Estates.

**Notes: **This is the "Extreme Makeover" edition of 'Hidden Starlight'. The reason for this fic is mostly because the old version's plot ran away from me, and a year or two later, I got the idea for this. And now, here's something that's almost relevant to the plot: In _Two Towers, _Tolkien says that Elves ride their horses bareback. But in _Fellowship,_ Glorfindel rides Asfaloth with a saddle and lots of bells. I'm assuming that Glorfindel is comfortable riding either way, but I _like_ him and Asfaloth with a chiming saddle, erego he keeps it in this fic even though it…well, probably wasn't a good idea.

**Hidden Starlight**

The two farms south of Nimrodel were quite unremarkable. They had begun as a post for the beacon wardens, though occasionally messengers stopped in for the night, and once an officer—a lieutenant, a man of actual rank and distinction—had popped in for a few hours.

Though the building itself was little more than a cottage (in total it had two rooms: a meeting area where a small desk and chair had stood for near to twenty years; and a bedroom which doubled as the cooking area, as it was the room with the fireplace.)

The beacons to the north of Rohan became obsolete with time, and only a handful were selected to remain active. The cottage was not one of them. The warden moved west and forgot the uneventful years he had spent living south of Nimrodel. The cottage itself stood empty for two or three more years, until a farm grew not more than a mile from it. It wasn't long at all before the farmers stumbled across the home and adopted it, eventually using it as a wedding gift for their second eldest son, Damron, and his bride Ersa.

Nearly two decades after they had moved in, Damron and Ersa were the parents of three children (one of them nearly grown, and the other two at last old enough to handle the chores). The five of them managed a small farm, cut off from the rest of the world and its goings on except for the rare times they ventured out to the roads, or rarer still, when they took their grain to market.

The twenty-second of June was an especially sticky night, even moreso with the lamps still burning in the farmhouse. Damron and Ersa were awake still, though the hour was that abysmal time when all was swallowed by the blackness of the night sky, as if even the moon grew weary of burning. The silence the forest animals used as they crept here and there, stalking one another, only made the air more heavy.

But their son was out there, many hours late. They waited.

At last, when Damron had paced until his feet ached, and Ersa had discarded the task of repairing a tunic (she wondered distantly if her anxious hands hadn't cause the garment more damage than when she had begun), they heard a most unfamiliar sound: bells, gently threading a melody through the dark.

They exchanged a glance, allowing it to last no longer than a few heartbeats, and quietly stepped out to the porch.

The clear rhythm of the bells worked its way closer, though as it did Ersa began to pick out the dischord in the music. The melody had managed to sooth her somewhat, but she hadn't even realized it until she began to shiver from its inharmony.

"Albaran?" she called out, though all she could see was darkness and more shadows, and all she heard was the disjointed chime of those small bells.

"Yes." As the boy spoke, unseen, a white shape—Damron thought he recognized it for a horse—appeared dimly through the trees, walking along the shoulder's edge of the road.

Beside the horse Ersa at last saw the silhouette of their shabby mule and old cart. Albaran drove up to the pool of lamplight in front of his parents and hopped down, though he stumbled with fatigue once he hit the ground.

Blearily he straightened, shrugging off their hands, and said to his mother, "Please gather some bandages." He ignored the scrutiny of her gaze as she examined him for injuries, and once she had gone back inside he turned to his father. "Come."

He led the man to the back of the cart and jerked off the oil-skin tarp he used for shelter when it rained and he must stop on the road to camp; otherwise the tarp was used to cover the sacks of grain they traded, and other, more valuable stock.

Damron stiffened as he realized that his son had brought not extra cloth, or fresh fruit, or new tools, but a man.

"I found him bound to a tree," Albaran said quietly, his voice so steady that Damron knew the boy was forcing himself not to quake. "though he had been there too long for me to pursue his tormentors." Unable to take his gaze from the man now that the tarp was off, Albaran gestured blindly at the side of the cart. "The horse would not leave his side…I found it lying next to him, saddle and bridle still on. The horse is injured as well—but I can see to it once…once mother is ready to…."

Damron squeezed the boy's shoulder, though that had been a taboo gesture only a few days ago. Albaran accepted it gratefully. He drew a breath, then bit his lower lip and swallowed heavily. "Father, I think—I'm sure that Orcs have done this to him. He—the ground, it was charred and black, and I can't think of any bandit who would be so…."

Damron stiffened, cut his son off with a hiss.

Ersa hurried back out, a clean apron over her soot- and earth-soiled skirts. "Bring him inside," she said quietly, urgently. Damron climbed up into the cart and accepted the sheet his wife offered, carefully maneuvering it under the man's body. It wasn't the sturdiest of supports, but it would have to do for now. Albaran took the corners under the man's legs, while Damron carefully pulled taut the ends that he was left with, and the two made their way inside.

Ersa had the man set down on the kitchen table (which was only a finger's space broader on either side than the man's shoulders, and he was taller than it was long, though not uncomfortably so). For the first time Damron got a clear look of their charge.

Even bruised and caked with blood and dirt and dung (Damron trusted his nose where dung was concerned, though he had never smelled any quite so foul as whatever caked this stranger), he was unmistakably inhuman. Ersa and Damron exchanged another short, furtive glance, checking to be sure that the other had realized what they had in their tiny home. _An Elf._

There was a broken splendor in his face, and ethereal power still in his countenance, even as he lay unconscious and near death. His hair was dull and covered with filth like the rest of him, but in a few places it showed gold. His clothes were torn but had once been finely crafted; like with his hair, a few spots were less soiled, enough that the color could be discerned. This Elf had worn blue.

"Albaran, go see to the animals," Damron spoke, hardly above a murmur.

Albaran turned and went out immediately.

Ersa, tight-lipped, began to remove the soiled rags Albaran had been using to staunch the Elf's wounds. Once she was certain the door was shut she spoke. "What is an Elf doing this far South? What are Orcs doing this far East?" Her gaze flitted to the bedroom where the other two children slept, then back to the front door, and back again to her patient. "I ask you, what does this mean? I thought that the war was over, Damron."

He watched her carefully remove what bandages she could—some were thickly caked with dried blood, and removing them too roughly would only reopen the wounds. Damron was vaguely surprised to find that Elves bled the same color as Men.

He earned two impatient glowers before he answered. "I don't know what it means. The war is over…it is, Ersa. And even before, Orcs never came this far northeast. I don't know what this means."

Ersa grew more agitated with this answer, and Damron knew full well by this time that she resented his presence when she was irritated. He frowned slightly and offered, "I'm going to help Albaran with the mule."

She didn't reply, except to wave him away as if she could brush him out of the room.

> > > >

The saddle girth had cut deeply into the horse's sides, and its bridle had rubbed its cheeks raw. The saddle blanket it wore had at least protected its back somewhat from any sores, but Albaran still cringed to see the wounds the animal suffered. He was fond of animals, moreso than he was of plants—he often dreamed of moving south to Rohan, to learn of horse care and horse breeding, rather than be trapped up here with wheat fields and an abnormally small mule.

He didn't want to force his way next to the horse while it was hurting; he had received more than his fair share of bites from the mule whenever it chanced to injure itself and he had to care for it. But the horse only moaned softly, pained, and watched Albaran full on as if unafraid.

"I won't hurt you," he said quietly, slowly inching forward. The horse didn't move away. He was close enough now to touch the saddle, inched forward a little more and was even with its belly.

The bells it wore jangled softly at the slightest touch, and Albaran was no more used to them now than when he had first tethered the horse to his cart. Most of the bells were cracked and no longer rang, which accounted for the unbalanced sound the rest now made. He could imagine that, before the Elf had fallen, the bells had been beautiful.

He kept an eye to the horse's head and carefully, slowly, reached underneath it to find the buckle. "I'm just going to take this off," he said softly, hoping to keep the animal from flinching with nothing more than his voice. He doubted it understood, but it did little more than tense its muscles, bracing itself.

Albaran carefully peeled the girth away from the horse, tearing raw flesh here and spilling blood there. The horse groaned and took a step back from him, though it couldn't go far enough to stop the saddle from being pulled the rest of the way off.

Surprised at how easily and—for him—painlessly that had gone, Albaran made his way to the horse's neck. "Almost finished…" he said, his voice still soft but less timid. This close, he could see writing on the bridle, though he couldn't read it. He only knew a little of Westron letters, but he was certain that this wasn't any language he or his parents knew anyway. What would Elves write about on their bridles?

The horse jerked its head when Albaran began to take the halter off, crying out when the leather cut deeper into its nose; but at last it was off, and the proud white horse stood unadorned and bleeding in the stall.

"I brought rags and water," Damron said. Albaran startled at his father's sudden appearance, but took the pot and cloth.

"Could you finish caring for the mule?" Albaran asked, embarrassed at having been snuck up on. The older man didn't answer but simply set about the chore, to the boy's mild surprise.

Albaran glanced backwards, smiled faintly in appreciation, and then set about cleaning the horse's face and neck and belly.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes: **It's been a frightening long time since I've ridden a horse, so any thoughts Glorfindel has about it are probably going to be a little bit "stretched". This might end up being a big problem, since he's going to be hanging out with Asfaloth a _lot._ If any of you are horse lovers and notice anything that doesn't seem right, feel free to point it out—except things about the horse's endurance, because Asfaloth isan Elvish horse and has more stamina. (At least I'm assuming, from _Fellowship.)_

Thanks are due to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad you like it! I hope you like this chapter, too, but don't be afraid to tell me if you don't. I don't bite anyone, not even flamers.

**Hidden Starlight**

**Chapter Two**

It was two days of anxious, spring-time chill before the Elf awoke.

Chaz, Ersa and Damron's youngest child, had studied their guest most of that time in uncustomary silence. Chaz was kept inside or next to her mother, being only three years old, yet now when she played she babbled in hushed, near-reverent tones, and when perchance she slipped and fell she would cry out only fleetingly.

Ersa, after watching the child toddle carefully about the kitchen when she usually ran, would 'hm' quietly and spare a thin-lipped frown for the unconscious stranger.

Glorfindel didn't remember falling asleep. He had known, even in an agony which had robbed him of all other thought, that to sleep would likely have meant waking in the Halls of Mandos again, and he was not ready to do so yet.

He had clung to the feel of shattered boned scraping at muscles in his arm with every twitch he made; to the screams his raw throat could not form; to his own blood drying. He had felt death—felt _fading—_before, and it was not a sensation he would ever forget. He knew how close he was.

Mandos' Hall was a place of waiting and rest. Everything was slowed or suspended there, except for the most inconsolable grief. But Glorfindel knew he still lived not simply through the shredding pain in every part of him, or the smell of old ashes and fresh bread around him. He knew he had remained in middle-earth because of the blackness.

He hurt just to realize that it was true. He could hear the daytime just outside, could smell the warmth of the sun, but it seemed that he lay in a void,

A swell of panic took him as he felt again the vertigo the blackness offered him, the sickening tilt-and-fall as his body made him believe the earth had disappeared from under him.

Glorfindel tried to call out, to Varda, to Manwe, to Earendil; but his throat refused to do more than offer a strained grunt. The pain of that effort put an end to the vertigo, at least.

He winced and finally understood that his eyes were already open. With his good arm tied and the other broken, he had been unable to stop the blood from his head wound from oozing down to dry in the sun and seal his eyes shut. Someone, then, must have found him…someone at least kind enough to care for his wounds. So he hoped.

Whatever he was lying on now, it was hard—his good hand fumbled and he felt that it was a rough, well-used wooden plank. He decided foggily that he was either in a field infirmary tent, or on a kitchen table. Given the warm, unmistakable scent of the bread, Glorfindel guessed it was the latter, though the thought frightened and amused him at once.

He heard footsteps drawing near and went cold with irrational fear. There was a moment in which he couldn't breathe, could think of nothing but pain and terror and hatred…but the footfalls came louder, and he forced himself to believe that any Orc's steps would have been louder still. Scrambling to be rational, he decided that whoever was out there had saved him and must mean him no harm. Even so he remained still and quiet, waiting, dreading.

There was the sound of pots being moved, metal on earth, the hollow _thunk_ of a bucket being dropped. And there! underneath it, a woman's voice muttering in Westron.

Glorfindels thoughts tumbled as he tried to reckon how far from Mirkwood he must have come, for _men_ to have found him before Elves. The Orcs had traveled only at night, and Glorfindel had been too weak to figure which direction they went or what destination the goblins had in mind.

Had he been riding Asfaloth, he might have been able to estimate the distance (roughly every six miles the horse's gait changed subtly—a hitch in his steps or a small change of pace), but Glorfindel had been made to march, else was dragged. Asfaloth had been beaten and driven ahead.

At the thought of the horse, a rush of adrenaline granted him the strength to struggle upright, though he was barely able to stay sitting, but he managed a small whistle. He heard no response, but doubted he'd truly made enough noise to be heard—if the horse was even here.

He heard instead the woman's startled yelp and a dish or some other object clatter to the floor.

"Damron!" she cried. "Damron! Come quickly! Oh, please, come quickly!"

Glorfindel flinched at the shrillness of the tone, and found that his strength had vanished as his fears told him Asfaloth was gone. He fell heavily to the tabletop again, bruising his shoulder as he did so.

"You need not fear," he attempted to say, but heard little more than strangled words from his own mouth. At least it seemed to calm her somewhat

A man rushed into the home, breathless and smelling of sweat and alfalfa. "What…?"

The woman started to go to his side but stopped partway, so that she stood closer to the Elf than to her husband. "He wakes. I…."

Glorfindel swallowed, hoping to soothe his dry throat. It did little to help. Very slowly, sensing a quiet in which they stared at him and had no words, he formed a request.

"Nen.…" _Water._ He had meant the Westron word; this they did not understand.

"Damron?"

The man came to his side, leaning closer as if to hear a dying companion's final wishes. "Can you speak?"

He took a careful breath. "Wa…ter…." There was vague satisfaction in having completed that much as clearly as he had. The woman immediately brought a small clay container and Glorfindel could smell the water in it.

"Careful," she urged him. "Here now, drink it slow."

It touched his lips and rubbed raw in his throat as he swallowed; but it was clean and fresh and cool. He tried to thank them but ended up coughing instead.

They gave him water several times after that, and Glorfindel gradually felt his throat being soothed. He would not have attempted song, but he felt certain that he would be able to manage more than a single word at a time.

"Thank you," he murmured, having to carefully work out which language to use, monitoring which words in fact came past his lips.

"Here now," the woman answered after a pause. "There's no need for thanks. My son found you, and knew he had no business leaving you as you were…anyone would have helped, it was just fortune that Albaran found you first."

There was no reply to that, none that he could offer at least, so he only smiled.

"I did not know…." She set something down near his hand. "My name is Ersa, and perhaps this isn't the time for introductions but I should like to know yours."

He swallowed a few times. "Glorfindel."

"Glorfindel. It is very nice to meet you."

The usual proprieties were too long and daunting for him to use just then, so he had to settled with, "Likewise."

"My husband, Damron, is just putting the mule up for the night. Albaran is caring for your horse—it _is_ your horse? It was with you, and so we assumed…."

"My horse?" He spoke that in a near-whisper.

"Yes, a white horse. He had bells. Albaran says that he'll be well in a few weeks—he's good with animals, you see, and trustworthy. When he says all's well, he means it."

"I feared." Ersa must already have known that, but Glorfindel had needed to say it anyway, and had poured as much gratitude into those words as they could hold.

"It's all right now," the woman answered, a distinctly maternal note in her voice. It had been many decades since Glorfindel had heard such kindness, and were he younger in his heart, were he not so shaped by the years and by wars, it would have soothed him.

He only smiled faintly again, listened to the crack of fire in the hearth, and allowed his mind to wander in Elvish dreams.


End file.
